Silent Rooftops:

Karachi’s skyline is a stressed one. Minarets pierce the air, neon symptoms flicker, and rooftops stretch like islands above the chaos. For most, rooftops are places of get away — where laundry dries, children play cricket, or households gather below the celebrities. however for Ayesha, rooftops have become something else totally: a place of silence, memory, and haunting echoes.

The Rooftop Ritual

Every night, Ayesha climbed the narrow staircase to the rooftop of her condo building. She carried a notebook, once in a while a cup of tea, and continually her solitude.

It wasn’t simply dependancy. It changed into ritual.

Two years in advance, her brother Bilal had died all at once in a car coincidence. The rooftop have been their shared sanctuary. They would sit down together, watching the town lighting, trading secrets and techniques, and dreaming of futures that in no way came.

After his loss of life, Ayesha kept returning. not to get away, however to remember.

The Silence That Speaks

Before everything, the rooftop felt empty. The wind became sharp, the celebrities detached. but slowly, Ayesha commenced to be aware matters.

The way the air shifted at the hours of darkness, as if a person had joined her. The faint sound of footsteps, although no one climbed the steps. The whisper of her call carried inside the wind.

She didn’t tell every person. Her family dismissed her rooftop visits as grief. however Ayesha knew the silence became alive. It wasn’t simply absence — it become presence.

The notebook

One night, she opened her pocket book and commenced writing letters to Bilal.

“Do you spot me here?” she wrote. “Do you listen the town the way we used to?”

She stuffed pages with recollections: the rooftop cricket suits, the whispered jokes, the desires of travelling overseas. every access ended the same manner: “I leave out you.”

Weeks later, she observed some thing odd. A page she hadn’t written on carried faint phrases in Bilal’s handwriting: “I omit you too.”

Her palms trembled. She knew it wasn’t possible. but the ink became actual, the letters familiar.

The Rooftop Stranger

One nighttime, as she sat sketching the skyline, she observed a figure at the rooftop throughout the road. a person, sitting alone, staring at the town. He seemed up, and for a moment, their eyes met.

He raised his pocket book. She raised hers. It became as if the rooftops had connected them — two strangers sure through silence.

Later, she discovered his call turned into Sameer, a creator who had lost his wife. He too visited the rooftop nightly, attempting to find echoes.

The Shared Silence

Ayesha and Sameer started changing notes across rooftops. now not spoken words, now not smartphone calls — simply pages held up in the night time air.

Her observe: “Do you believe silence speaks?” His respond: “It’s the loudest thing I realize.”

They shared grief, reminiscences, and fragments of restoration. The rooftops became bridges, wearing their ache across the metropolis.

The Turning point

One night, Ayesha wrote: “I don’t want to forget him. but I don’t want to drown either.”

Sameer’s reply came speedy: “We don’t forget. we carry. And wearing is likewise dwelling.” For the first time, Ayesha felt the silence shift. It wasn’t heavy anymore. It became lighter, shared.

The Closure

Months exceeded. Ayesha still visited the rooftop, but now she carried less grief and more gratitude. She realized rooftops weren’t haunted — they were sacred. locations in which reminiscence and presence intertwined.

On Bilal’s demise anniversary, she lit a candle at the rooftop. Sameer lit one throughout the road. together, they watched the flames flicker in opposition to the Karachi skyline.

The silence spoke once more. but this time, it said: “You are not on my own.”

The Lesson

Silent rooftops are anywhere. In Karachi, in the big apple, in Delhi. they're locations where human beings grieve, don't forget, and heal.

Ayesha’s tale is not specific. it's far human. Rooftops preserve echoes of laughter, whispers of loss, and the quiet resilience of folks who keep hiking the stairs, night after night time, attempting to find connection.

And every so often, in the silence, they locate it.